“Ah.” Another shrug. “Well, Cousin Judge, you understand. Doorcords, busy inside, don’t interrupt, your own neighborhood manners. I meant I couldn’t find him outside and unoccupied.”
Judge gazed steadily at merchant. “Only Torin can tell you the total. But no tradecrafter would be wise to acquire a reputation for slippery dealings in our neighborhood, Cousin Ulrad, however accidental and undeserved that reputation. I advise you to settle with the toymaker before you come to Kasdan’s mealtent tomorrow, even if you must wait in the Scholar’s Pavilion until he finishes his showcrafting there this evening.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Good notion, Cousin Judge. Thanks. Shouldn’t be too much longer.” Ulrad drank the last few drops of collected cordial and set down his glass. “I can go now? Make sure to catch him.”
Alrathe nodded. “I have nothing more to ask you, Cousin Merchant. Prosper in your trade and in your blamelessness.”
“And you, Cousin. Prosper.” Ulrad bowed, clumsily but eagerly, and departed.
Watching the curtain swing back into place, Alrathe sighed and hoped the merchant had not been overly alarmed. That last piece of questioning had been the afternoon’s most delicate interview, and the judge was far from self-content.
At least the mealtent brawl had, in itself, been fairly easy to judge. And it might have provided further pieces of the orangestone puzzle. “If I can only fit together this business of High Wizard Talmar and his wandering globe…” the judge murmured, looking again at the lists of transformed banquet foods.
Alrathe’s fingertip came down on the line “dewmelons.” Yesterday’s had been transformed from cabbages, as testified both by the conjurer’s list and Alrathe’s own memory of seeing transformations unknit on the table. According to Torin’s list, the dewmelons for Talmar’s First Name-Lengthening dinner had probably been made from pumpkins, but it was long ago and that was one of several transformations the toymaker remained unsure about.
Alrathe stood and removed the steaming kettle from the brazier. Another visit to the sick wizard’s tent might not be misplaced this evening.
Chapter Twelve
The toymaker hoped Vathilda would not decide to continue their magic show throughout supper hour. Such practices could be profitable at larger fairs, where customary mealtimes caused comparatively little pause in other trade, due to the numbers of people who ate at unusual hours or bypassed some meals altogether. But this last Amberleaf Fair of the season was too small.
The old sorceress obviously recognized this. When the clouded sky began darkening early, she announced that, like the storytellers, the magickers would tie their doorstrings for supper and start this evening’s entertainment an hour after full dark, at which time Torin would climb the platform.
Inside the alcove for private shows, Torin heard her, saw anticipation on his last buyer’s face, and felt—instead of relief—a shiver. He sat alone in the alcove until by the fading sounds, the last members of the audience had gone. When he came out, only Vathilda remained in the outer tent, the other students having presumably gone with the showbuyers.
“I wish you had not announced I would begin tonight’s platform show,” the toymaker said with careful calm.
“You agreed to that plan at midday.”
“I felt less tired at midday.” Or, perhaps, more guilty. “And I didn’t expect so many feats to go wrong for me in the alcove this afternoon.”
“They’ll buy to see your mistakes as readily as your successes, Brother Crafter.”
“I know.… Well, half an hour, then. Seven tricks.”
“An hour, and repeat your seven. Half an hour’s hardly time enough to fetch ’em in.”
“Well, then. At least I can give my brother this evening if I can’t promise him the rest of my life.”
“You’ve made your final choice, eh?”
“I made it when I was fifteen years old.” The toymaker shrugged. “I find it hasn’t changed.”
“If all of us rethought our choice after every long show afternoon,” said Vathilda, “precious few would stay with the study, and those few the frivolous ones, the applause-crafters. Displays are the least of magic-mongering.”
“I know.”
“But not the least dangerous, for some.”
“That I’m not sure of.”
“Aye,” said Vathilda, with another shrewd glance, “it’s glory-chokers who run most risks on that platform, and I doubt you’re one to fall under that rockslide. But if your brother’s dying, do him one kindness and don’t tell him you’re fixed on staying crafter.”
“Not unless he sews me into a pocket.” Torin was not among those few strict folk who believed painful truths pleased Cel more than kindly falsehoods, but somehow he did not want to send Talmar to Thyrna the Harvest Spirit with this particular lie. Perhaps he feared that if he uttered any such statement, Vathilda would find some way, after all, of transforming it into truth? “But hope seemed better this afternoon that he isn’t dying.”
He might be dead or fully recovered; close though Talmar’s tent was, they had received no news to interrupt their show. Vathilda shrugged and led the way from the Scholars’ Pavilion. When Torin was outside with her, she dropped behind to stiffen the doorcurtain. He walked on to the high wizard’s tent.
Talmar’s curtain hung stiff, but suppled at his brother’s touch. Talmar was asleep, and—unexpectedly—Dilys was here. She sat to one side, out of the way, a steaming cup in her hands, and when she caught Torin’s glance she nodded back toward the sick man, whose sleep seemed much easier now. Sharys knelt beside him, her head and forearms on the bed near his chest. At first it looked like despair, but Torin saw she had fallen asleep, too. Talmar’s breathing sounded nearly normal except for a thin whine somewhere high in his nose. The last of the swelling had gone down, and only a few speckles of rash remained on his face. In health and repose, a handsome face, longer and thinner than his older brother’s, with a clifflike rather than a gentle nose, but a paler complexion since the high wizard spent little time outdoors. Torin had sometimes carved statues of Vikal, Spirit of the North Wind and Winter, with Talmar for a remembered model.
“Aye, out of danger, I think,” Hilshar murmured near Torin. He looked around and saw she had come up from behind, bringing a bottle of cordial. She must have been preparing it when he came in. “We found Sharys asleep like that,” the magician added, “and didn’t want to wake her just yet.”
Torin looked again at Talmar and Sharys. For a moment he wondered… Her arm was browner than Talmar’s cheek. Her summer-gathered sunbronze had not faded very much.
Vathilda came in with a billow of draft. “Tender scene,” Torin heard her mutter to Hilshar. Then the old sorceress touched his shoulder. “I just met that traveling merchant, Brother Crafter. Outside our Scholars’ Tent. Said he was looking to pay you what he owes. I told him to come back for our evening display.”
Dilys half choked on a wry chuckle. “Scurrying ants and skelter-trails! Maybe you can still catch him, Torinel.”
Torin returned to the door and looked out. He could not see either of the far-traveling merchants who still owed him for toys taken yesterday, and he did not relish the idea of a tag-chase along muddy footpaths. Business was not quite that important, especially here.
When he turned back into the tent, Vathilda was shaking her granddaughter’s shoulder. Sharys woke and lifted her head. Talmar opened his eyes at the same moment.
“Sleep-headed healers soothe only themselves,” said Vathilda. “Go catch some proper rest, sapling. Your mother and I can watch for a few hours.”
Sharys protested a little. “I didn’t. I didn’t drowse until…” Her hand moved toward Talmar’s chest. His hand came up to cover hers.
Talmar’s glance stirred through the tent and he smiled, though keeping his lips slightly parted as if for easier breathing. “All right, all right, Sharilysin.” His voice was still a little ragged, but his words were steady. “It seems I’ve gathered four
more nurses. Go and rest.”
She looked at his face. He closed his eyes, and Torin thought the veins bulged in his high forehead…not much. If he was indeed adding a mind-message, her obvious receptivity, coupled with their physical nearness, meant it cost him little strain. Perhaps she closed her eyes also, but her back was to the toymaker. After a moment she nodded, stood, and turned to go.
Dilys sighed and sipped from her cup.
“Well?” said Vathilda. “Contented with her nursing, are you, Son Talmar?”
“Well contented, Daughter Vathilda.”
Sharys paused and glanced back, then reached for the doorcurtain. It looked almost as if she were gesturing it to one side without touching it. By coincidence—it must be—Judge Alrathe was just coming in.
“I think probably you should stay a few moments longer, Cousin Sharys,” said the judge. “Ah! Cousin Talmar, you look happily near-recovered.”
“And feel so.” Lifting handycloth to mouth, the wizard coughed as if to clear his throat and went on, marginally less hoarse, “I’ll give the closing display tomorrow evening, as planned.”
Vathilda grunted. “Ah? Then best keep to simple tricks. No more showing off new fancies with your fool’s globe.”
“Mother Vathilda.” The judge fingered a writing tablet. “With every respect for your skills as healer, I remarked yesterday that this resembled sensitivity.”
Vathilda looked at Alrathe, curled her left hand against her right and snapped all four finger-knuckles simultaneously. “How often have you seen glory-choking, Child Judge?”
“Not often. Buying and receiving judgments is not an activity that fosters pride. I have seen anger-choking, however, and two of my birth cousins have suffered from curious sensitivities. I assume that boasting sickness more nearly resembles anger-choking than sensitivity.”
Hilshar crossed to the bed, sat down and began rubbing Talmar’s forehead with a damp cloth. “We should consider every possibility, Mother.”
“Aye, maybe.”
“Or are you too proud, Sister Vathilda?” said Talmar.
The sorceress coughed and folded her arms. “So, Cousin Judge. Rather than be accused of boasting myself, I’ll hear your notion.”
Alrathe opened the tablet. “My cousin Therian’s sensitivity is especially curious. Cherries and peaches she can eat alone with no trouble, provided she allows at least a day between. But if she eats both at the same meal, she chokes and swells much as Cousin Talmar did yesterday, though not so desperately. Since those two fruits are often served together, we were able to identify her sensitivity in time to plan a safe feast for her First Name-Lengthening.”
“Convenient,” said Vathilda. “Aye, I’ve heard of these double sensitivities. Rarely.”
“Now, suppose one of the mischievous foods were transformed from the other? And that it was not the usual base food, but an infrequently used substitute.”
“It might happen seldom and slip unrecognized for years,” said Talmar. “As mine did.”
Vathilda looked at him. “You guessed all this in your sick dreams, Son? Or did our healer-judge consult you before me?”
“You were busy all day with our show, Grandmother,” said Sharys. “And we had to make up the food lists for Cousin Alrathe.”
“Inconveniently,” said Talmar, “I took no part in preparing my First Name-Lengthening dinner. We have only my brother’s memory for that.” He looked at Torin and Torin looked away, feeling, however irrationally, that he had been accused and somehow deserved it.
“We must assume the mischievous combination is among those Torin never knew or has not remembered,” said the judge. “But what poet has advised us to keep careful memory storage of dinners, even First Name-Lengthening dinners, that we ate twenty years ago? Poets who mention it at all tend to praise forgetfulness in such matters. Cousin Hilshar, did you use any unusual base liquid for the wines?”
She shook her head. “Plain water transforms into anything else drinkable. I mingled some milk with it for the cordials.”
“I fell sick before drinking any cordial,” said Talmar.
“No more did I make any inventive changes,” said Vathilda. “I’ve learned better than to experiment when there’s no need.”
Alrathe consulted the writing tablet. “Then, assuming a lapse in Torin’s memory, I suspect either citrons made from potatoes or dewmelons from cabbages.”
“The melons!” said Talmar. “I’ve made citrons for myself from potatoes.”
“And whatever else,” said Torin. “He’s relished citrons since growing his teeth. But, yes! We might have transformed our dewmelons from cabbages for his dinner if pumpkins were scarce that year.”
“Aye,” said Vathilda. “Neat and tidy, Cousin Judge, and how will we prove it, eh?”
“Transform another one,” said the high wizard. “Another cabbage into dewmelon. I’ll eat it tomorrow night. After my display of magic.”
“Talmariak!” exclaimed Sharys, starting back to him.
“Not the safest kind of test, Uncle Talmar,” Dilys was remarking.
“Yes. A rugged harvesting. I know what I’ll risk. More clearly than any of you.” Talmar paused, looking around at all of them and coughing deliberately into his cloth. “I will dazzle this fair tomorrow evening. Five towns will envy everyone who came here and saw my new techniques first. Afterward, I’ll eat the transformation. If I survive my display and choke on the cabbage-melon, we’ll know.”
“And either you’ll meet Thyrna in earnest this time, or keep us here three days after the fair nursing you again,” said Vathilda.
“Talmarak.” Torin swallowed. His brother had not questioned him into any tangible pocket, yet it felt that way. He avoided looking at Vathilda. “Whatever happens, Talmariak, whatever you do or choose against, I’ll remain a toycrafter. Don’t walk your knife-edge path hoping otherwise.”
Talmar breathed a deep sigh that ended in something like another half-cough. “Will you, then? Still the fool, ever—always our family fool, older brother? Well, I won’t eat much. Only enough to prove sensitivity.”
“Fools think every path’s a knife-edge but their own,” said Vathilda. “I’d avoid glory-climbing and cabbage-dewmelons both, Son Talmar, but if you’re determined on risking your magic show, is that any reason to risk the melon, too? Glory-choke on your fine display, and I’ll stay to nurse you again. Choke on your melon afterward, and I’ll take my family home and leave whoever chooses to nurse you.”
Staring at her grandmother, Sharys slipped her hand into Talmar’s. “You don’t even like dewmelons so very much, do you, Uncle Talmariak? And I’d have to make it. Maybe it was something in my magic that made the combination mischievous.”
After a moment he smiled, seemed to squeeze her hand and then shake it away. “When I survive my magic display, Sister Vathilda, agree this must have been sensitivity and stop trying to humble me. But if I glory-choke on my own achievements tomorrow, leave me to die. Don’t nurse me again.”
“And you won’t try eating cabbage-melons?” said Sharys.
Talmar smiled at her and shook his head.
“Aye, well,” said the sorceress. “A foolish bargain, but I’ll agree to it. Now come back to our own tent, Sharys sapling, and rest for an hour. You’ll help me with this evening’s show and we’ll leave your mother to nurse our stubborn fool of a wizard. Toymaker, you’re still magicker with us until midnight, however you choose the rest of your life.”
“I’ll be ready an hour after full dark.” Torin watched Vathilda take her granddaughter’s arm and draw her from the tent. He sighed, brushed his fingers over his hair, and looked at Dilys.
She looked down into her cup. “I’ve almost finished. Thank you for the posset, Mother Hilshar.” She swallowed her last mouthful, set her cup down, and glanced back at Torin. “I’ve finished.”
“But I have not,” said Judge Alrathe. “Not quite. I have still something to ask you, Cousin Talmar.”
“Ah?
” Talmar’s brow wrinkled slightly. “Concerning some judgment, Cousin? I think I’m strong enough to lie here nurseless awhile.”
Dilys stood, and Hilshar put down her damp cloth.
But Alrathe answered them with a headshake. “I doubt any judgment is involved. Only the answer to a troublesome puzzle. High Wizard, last night you yourself arranged for someone to take your globe to your brother’s tent.”
Talmar looked from Alrathe to Torin and shrugged his eyebrows. “That puzzled you? Last night I thought I saw the Harvest Spirit clear. One last message for my brother. Brother Torin, I fancied you’d see its meaning as clearly as I saw Thyrna with her harvest hook.”
This time it was the toymaker who shrugged. “I didn’t, Talmar. Not entirely. I thought perhaps I’d walked asleep, taken it in my dreams. I thought…” He let his voice trail off. It was his self-doubts about taking Talmar’s globe unconsciously that had planted his self-doubts about taking Valdart’s orangestone in the same way, but he found little reason to speak of that here.
“If my thoughts muddled last night,” said Talmar, “I had some excuse.”
“I also believe I could name your messenger,” said Alrathe.
“Perhaps,” the wizard replied indifferently. “That person made secrecy a condition, and I’ll respect my promise.”
“I guessed as much,” said the judge. “That was why you scrambled the images for the time your messenger must have been with you receiving your instructions.”
“Scrambling the images was simple. Thinking reason gave me more difficulty last night. But I realized this much: that having muddled a few moments, I had only to let my globe continue reviewing and it would not absorb my messenger’s reflection during the rest of our talk.”
Hilshar looked at Alrathe. “But we were with him together, never fewer than two or three of us, all afternoon until evening, and then we all left him alone for Thyrna.”
“Mind-messages,” replied the judge.
“But he was too weak to send mind-messages any distance.” Hilshar picked up the damp cloth again, turning it absently in her hands. “So it had to be one of us who were with him there.”
At Amberleaf Fair Page 13
